Vendetta eBook

Nevertheless, for the last five years, Ginevra, grown
wiser than her father, avoided such scenes. Her
faithfulness, her devotion, the love which filled
her every thought, and her admirable good sense had
got the better of her temper. And yet, for all
that, a very great evil had resulted from her training;
Ginevra lived with her father and mother on the footing
of an equality which is always dangerous.

Piombo and his wife, persons without education, had
allowed Ginevra to study as she pleased. Following
her caprices as a young girl, she had studied all
things for a time, and then abandoned them,—­taking
up and leaving each train of thought at will, until,
at last, painting had proved to be her dominant passion.
Ginevra would have made a noble woman had her mother
been capable of guiding her studies, of enlightening
her mind, and bringing into harmony her gifts of nature;
her defects came from the fatal education which the
old Corsican had found delight in giving her.

After marching up and down the room for some time,
Piombo rang the bell; a servant entered.

“Go and meet Mademoiselle Ginevra,” said
his master.

“I always regret our carriage on her account,”
remarked the baroness.

“She said she did not want one,” replied
Piombo, looking at his wife, who, accustomed for forty
years to habits of obedience, lowered her eyes and
said no more.

Already a septuagenarian, tall, withered, pale, and
wrinkled, the baroness exactly resembled those old
women whom Schnetz puts into the Italian scenes of
his “genre” pictures. She was so habitually
silent that she might have been taken for another
Mrs. Shandy; but, occasionally, a word, look, or gesture
betrayed that her feelings still retained all the
vigor and the freshness of their youth. Her dress,
devoid of coquetry, was often in bad taste. She
usually sat passive, buried in a low sofa, like a
Sultana Valide, awaiting or admiring her Ginevra,
her pride, her life. The beauty, toilet, and
grace of her daughter seemed to have become her own.
All was well with her if Ginevra was happy. Her
hair was white, and a few strands only were seen above
her white and wrinkled forehead, or beside her hollow
cheeks.

“It is now fifteen days,” she said, “since
Ginevra made a practice of being late.”

“Jean is so slow!” cried the impatient
old man, buttoning up his blue coat and seizing his
hat, which he dashed upon his head as he took his
cane and departed.

“You will not get far,” said his wife,
calling after him.

As she spoke, the porte-cochere was opened and shut,
and the old mother heard the steps of her Ginevra
in the court-yard. Bartolomeo almost instantly
reappeared, carrying his daughter, who struggled in
his arms.